Vandover and the Brute eBook

from the office that afternoon and that it was necessary
he should return in the morning. Ah, you bet,
he would get it right in the neck if old Beale didn’t
have those depositions the first thing when the office
was open. Ah, he was getting to be indispensable
down there. He had had Fischer’s place now
for a year. Fischer had never come back, and
he had the promise of being taken on as head clerk
as soon as Beale Jr. went into the partnership with
old Beale. “I’ll make my way in this
town yet,” he declared. “I’ll
be in that partnership myself some day. You see;
yes, sir; ah, you bet!”

The idea of passing the night alone terrified Vandover.
He started toward home, walking up Sutter Street,
proceeding slowly, his hands in his pockets.
All at once he stopped, without knowing why; he roused
himself and looked about him. There was a smell
of eucalyptus in the air. Across the street was
the huge white house, and he found that he had stopped
just before the door of the building on the top floor
of which his studio was situated. All day Vandover’s
mind had been in the greatest agitation, his ideas
leaping and darting hither and thither like terrified
birds in a cage. Just now he underwent a sudden
reaction. It had all been a matter of fancy,
nothing but nervousness; he had not drawn for some
time, his hand lacked cunning from long disuse.
The desire for work came upon him again overpoweringly.
He wanted to see again if he could not draw just as
truly and freely as in the old days. No, he could
not wait till morning; he must put himself to the test
again at once, at the very instant. It was a sudden
feminine caprice, induced, no doubt, by the exalted,
strained, and unnatural condition of his nerves, a
caprice that could not be reasoned with, that could
not be withstood. He had his keys with him, he
opened the outside door and groped his way up the
four long flights of stairs to his studio.

The studio was full of a sombre half-light, like a
fog, spreading downward from the great north light
in the sloping roof. The window was still wide
open, the stretcher showed a pale gray blur. Vandover
was about to light the gas when he checked himself,
his arm still raised above his head. Ah, no;
he did not dare to look at the result of his day’s
work. It would be better to start in afresh from
the beginning. He found the chamois skin on the
tray of the easel and rubbed out all the drawing on
the canvas. Then he lit the gas.

As he turned to his work once more a little thrill
of joy and of relief passed over him. This time
his hand was sure, steady, his head was clear.
It had been nervousness after all. As he picked
up his charcoal he even exclaimed to himself, “Just
the same, that was a curious experience this
afternoon.”

But the curious experience repeated itself again that
night as soon as he tried to work. Once more
certain shapes and figures were born upon his canvas,
but they were no longer the true children of his imagination,
they were no longer his own; they were changelings,
grotesque abortions. It was as if the brute in
him, like some malicious witch, had stolen away the
true offspring of his mind, putting in their place
these deformed dwarfs, its own hideous spawn.